Brushstrokes
by yuuago
Summary: When Sweden had commissioned the portraits, he had meant it only as a token of affection; he hadn't thought there would be a time when he'd see Finland's portrait more often than Finland himself.


Though it was not yet late in the day, the sun sank low on the horizon, turning the late spring light a soft, warm shade of gold that spilled into the room and coloured it. Sweden looked out the window from his comfortable spot in his armchair, and judged that it would not be long before it would be dark and that soon he would have to rise to set candles if he wanted to continue reading any longer, then turned his gaze back to the book in his lap.

In truth, though he had been sitting there staring at the book for a good while, he wasn't actually reading it. The book had been open to the same page for a solid half-hour, or so he would guess if he had been paying any attention to the time. But he wasn't paying attention to it, and wasn't reading either, and he hadn't been reading since the moment he had, out of habit, dipped his fingers into his pocket and slid out the small locket he carried with him, resting it gently against the pages of the book in his lap. Then, with a careful and almost reverent hand, he opened it.

The image inside was a miniature portrait. The old-fashioned painting style betrayed its age, but it was as crisp and neat in all respects as the day it had been set into its frame two hundred years ago. Though so much time had passed, the thing had been handled with great care.

In recent years, he had found far more occasions to take it out and look at it than he had in the past. There is little reason to look at someone's portrait when the person himself is close at hand, but when separated by distance – well, that was another thing altogether.

Sweden stared at the image in front of him, rested his head against one hand, and sighed. From the picture frame, Finland looked back at him. The artist's brush had captured his likeness with surprising accuracy; everything spoke to the spirit of his friend, from the way his hair fell across his brow, to the slope of his nose and roundness of his cheeks, and most of all, the brightness of his smile. While Sweden himself was not bad at painting, it was a spark that he never could have illustrated with his own hand, and not for the first time, he was glad he'd had the picture commissioned. It wasn't difficult to recall the day he had told Finland that he wanted to have portraits done; Finland's expression had been at once surprised and confused. He had laughed as if it was the silliest thing he had ever heard and said, "Why would you need a miniature of me when we're together so much?"

But Sweden had insisted on having the portrait painted. In truth, he hadn't said much of anything in response to that. Trying to think of the right way to phrase his reply had left him tongue-tied and flustered. In the end, his nervous searching for words had proved unnecessary, and he had no need to say anything, nor explain himself either. Before he could get a word out, Finland had smiled at him, though it seemed that smile had a hint of unsureness about it, and had agreed to it. "Don't look so worried! I'll - well, it isn't much trouble, anyway. I'll sit for it if you really want me to."

Sweden had arranged to have a similar miniature painted of himself, and had it set into a locket matching the other portrait. He had given it to Finland without explaining. To his relief, Finland accepted it cheerfully, though not without teasing him: "Come on, now. I see you every day. Why would I need a token like this?" 

* * *

Sweden bit his lip and carefully took up the locket in his palm, bringing it closer so as to get a clearer look at the miniature painting of Finland's likeness in the yellow afternoon light. Why would either of them need something like that? In truth, Sweden hadn't thought so deeply on it at the time; it was only that there were occasions when they had to be apart, when business needed to be attended to at home or abroad, and it simply wasn't practical for the two of them to be together. Regrettably, it was a simple fact that there were times that Finland needed to be where his people were, and Sweden needed to be where his own populace was too, and there was no way to avoid it.

And so it had occurred to him that the simplest solution to the problem of distance would be portraits. Small ones, the kind locked secretly away, kept close in the way that human lovers kept one another's images close to the heart. But he hadn't said that; he didn't dare to phrase it that way, in fact. From what Finland had said, he simply didn't understand what Sweden meant by the gift, and thinking of having to explain it to him had made Sweden blush and give up completely on the idea of trying to get him to understand anything about it.

While it had been meant only as a gesture of affection, a small token of fondness – and, perhaps, something more – over time it came to mean far more than Sweden had ever wanted. "We see each other every day!" soon became words that belonged to the past. Neither of them could have predicted that they would become separated in the way that it had happened.

Sweden set the portrait down on the page again and rested his head back against the chair, closing his eyes as he fell deep into thought. It hadn't been long since the two of them had been torn apart. A decent amount of time in a human's view, perhaps, but when taking into consideration the length of their own lives, hardly any time had passed at all. Somewhere inside him, there was a deep, hollow ache, as if a part of him had been grasped and forcibly extracted.

Maybe that wasn't such an inaccurate way to view it. His fingers found the frame of the portrait and caressed it without looking at it, feeling the familiar texture, the familiar weight of its frame.

Had Finland kept its partner? When Sweden had given it to him, Finland had thanked him cheerfully and offered him a bright smile in return. "Oh, it looks just like you! Well, mostly. I mean, you aren't glaring in this picture, not like you usually are - um, but I mean, that's good! It's a good look for you. I like it."

He hadn't seen the portrait since. Even during the time that they were still living together, Sweden hadn't seen it even once. But, Sweden reminded himself, that did not mean that Finland hadn't kept it, nor that he hadn't kept it close to him. Maybe he kept it in the same way that Sweden did - private, and close to his heart. Maybe. 

* * *

The sound of the door to his study opening interrupted his thoughts. Sweden looked up and stared as Norway entered the room, carrying a small packet of letters and looking as if he knew perfectly well that he had intruded without announcing himself, and didn't care one bit.

"Mail's here," Norway said simply as he went over to drop the packet unceremoniously on the endtable next to where Sweden was sitting. "Looks like business. Might need tendin' to."

Sweden barely heard him. He was not concerned about the letters; what occupied his attention was the portrait resting against his book, and how on earth he could conceal it without the movement catching his brother's attention. "That so," he replied, not taking his eyes off Norway, who stood at perfect ease next to him. Since Sweden hadn't made any move to open the packet and separate the letters, he had begun to do it himself.

"Aye, that's right." Norway clicked his tongue and set two aside. "Got summat from that government of yours, here. Could be important."

"Hm." As slowly and carefully as he could, Sweden moved to cover the portrait with his hand while Norway was occupied. "Might not."

"Well. Maybe not." Norway held up one of the letters, frowned at it, then pocketed it. Then he glanced at Sweden, first at his face, then down to his hand and the book that it rested on, before directing his attention once more to the letters he was sifting through. "Come off it, brother, there's no need to go hidin' from me."

Sweden swallowed harshly. He steeled his expression, but that did not change the fact that he could feel heat in his ears as he blushed scarlet. "Wasn't hidin' anything," he said. There was no way that Norway could have seen -

"Bullshit. I know you been starin' at that picture like some lad moonin' over his lemman." Norway didn't look up from the pile as he spoke, as if such a personal subject was perfectly ordinary and natural to talk about so openly. "Ain't seemly, actin' so besotted while doin' naught about it."

The nerve of him, Sweden thought. But with reluctance he removed his hand from where it covered the portrait and, still blushing, took it up with care and pointedly set it on the endtable, as if to prove that he hadn't been mooning over it, and that he knew there was no need to hide it at all. 'Doing nothing about it', Norway had said, as if he had any business saying it. "What d'you think," Sweden ground out.

Norway paused. He looked toward the portrait, then down at the letters in his hands, pursing his lips as he considered something. "Ought to write him, mayhaps. You ain't done that, have you?"

"No." Sweden could barely contain his horror at the very thought of it. Write to Finland? After everything that had happened? No. He couldn't possibly do it. Clearing his throat, he groped for a moment in search of the right words to explain himself, then added, "I can't."

"Why not? Can't see any reason for him not bein' able to receive letters, even from you - long's it's strictly personal, that is."

"'N if he doesn't read it?"

"Don't see why he'd do that."

"Ya' don't read what Denmark sends you."

Norway frowned. "That's different," he said sharply. "That brother've ours ain't got nothin' worthwhile to say, anyhow. And that ain't got nothin' to do with you 'n that Finland, neither."

"Hn." Sweden looked from him to the portrait on the table. The very thought of sending Finland a letter made his insides twist terribly. He couldn't do it. And even if he did manage to gather himself enough courage to do it, what on earth could he possibly say? How would he begin? With apologies? What?

As if sensing that his suggestion had caused some flustered indecision, Norway neatly gathered up the last of his letters, left the ones belonging to Sweden on the table, and turned to leave without bothering to give Sweden another word. He crossed the room with light footsetps, and Sweden didn't trouble himself to look at him. But then Norway stopped.

"There's another thing."

Sweden looked up. "What?"

"You're right, I don't read 'em." Norway held up one of the letters and nodded to it, indicating that it was yet another one from Denmark. "But I keep 'em."

"Oh?"

"That's right. So, write him, then. Would do ya' good." 

* * *

Norway left him without another word. The letters addressed to Sweden remained on the table where they had been left, and Sweden made no move to attend to them. His brother's words echoed through Sweden's head as he took up the portrait again and stared at Finland's likeness. _I keep 'em. So write him, then._ The advice was simple, to the point, and without fuss; just the kind that Norway was wont to give.

It was true that after Finland's departure Sweden hadn't sent him a single letter. That is not to say that the thought had not occurred to him; in fact, more than once, he had sat down at his writing-table fully intent on doing it, only to scrap the result in frustration when it didn't take the turn that he wanted. After several attempts at it, he had given up completely, deciding that no matter how he tried, he couldn't come up with the words to express himself.

In the lingering afternoon light, the portrait of Finland's smiling face seemed to wink at him.

Perhaps it was time to make another attempt.

Finland hummed as he set the package on the desk in his bedroom. Well, _this_ was a surprise. When the mail had come, it had contained the usual letter from Russia, along with a few other things that he had been expecting. But along with the letters, there had been a packet included with it that had given him pause, as the person who had sent it was not someone he would have anticipated receiving a letter from at all, let alone anything else. He recognized the handwriting well enough, but he never would have expected - well, never mind.

He stared at the package for a moment, not quite sure what to make of it. After leaving Sweden's house, he hadn't heard a single thing from him. It was awfully cold of him, Finland had thought after a while, but then again, it was hard to tell what he meant by the silence - or what he meant by anything that he ever did or said, really.

The package was slim, wrapped with care, neither small nor overly large, and quite flat. Finland ran his fingers over the wrapping and tried to feel through the thick paper in order to guess at what might be inside it. No luck. He really didn't have any idea at all.

"Well, then. Only one way to find out," he muttered to himself. Whatever this was, he'd get to the bottom of it. Determined, he set about unwrapping it, but slowly and carefully, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. What was the big mystery for, Sweden?

The first thing that greeted him was a slip of paper. It was folded crisply and neatly, and when he opened it, he stared at the line of writing that greeted him.

_I miss you._

That was all. Nothing else. He flipped it over and checked the other side of it, just in case. Nothing.

Deep inside, something turned and twisted. It was a feeling he was familiar with. Oh, he'd confronted it before, taken a good look at how he felt, and decided that it wouldn't do him any good to think about the past like that, not with the way that things had changed over the years. All of those were personal feelings, and it wouldn't do for a nation to let those get in the way, would it? With the situation he was in, living connected to a very different person, it really was counter-productive to let any of those feelings edge toward the front.

Sweden's silence had done him a favour. Not receiving any word from him had made the whole thing easier to bury, really. But to look at that card, with its familiar handwriting, well, that was another thing entirely. Finland brushed his thumb over the ink to get a feel of the impression the pen had made. He traced the words with his fingernail and smiled slightly at the way the letters curved.

Sweden had always had nice handwriting.

It's funny, he thought as he set the card aside and set to opening the rest of the package, carefully unfolding the thick paper. He didn't sign his name. Well, that made sense enough anyway, didn't it? Sweden knew that Finland would still recognize his writing. It hadn't been that many years since he'd last written a letter to him, though the situation then had been much different.

The package, he discovered, was a small portfolio of watercolour sketches. Finland sifted through them carefully, looking at each of them in turn. They were scenes, landscapes, locations he recognized; city streets that he and Sweden had walked together, coasts where they had spent time. One of them - Finland took it up, held it closer to the lamp, and smiled. Yes, there was no doubt that one of them was of Turku Cathedral. But drawn from memory as it was, it didn't look quite right. But it was a close enough likeness, to be sure! There was no doubt as to what place Sweden had meant it to be.

Finland hummed as he spread the watercolours out on his desk, then stood back to take a look at them. "Now then, Sweden, what did you mean by sending these?" he murmured, adjusting one here, tilting another there. They were nice, of course, and it was also nice to remember the times they'd spent together - the good times that is, the calm and sunny summer days when Sweden would take up his easel and go out, and Finland would go with him. They'd spend the afternoon together like that, Sweden painting while Finland would sit nearby and talk to make up for Sweden's lack of talking, or read to him from some book or other while Sweden listened, not saying a word, though from time to time he'd grunt to make it clear that yes, he was listening, now keep going, please.

For a while Finland stared at the paintings. Then he turned and went to his bedside table, where a small keepsake box had sat untouched ever since he had set himself up in that house after the move. After a second of hesitating, he opened it and carefully took out the miniature portrait inside of it. He gave it a good look over, taking in the likeness - and it was quite a good likeness too, though a more gentle look than what was often on Sweden's face. In fact, it seemed as if the artist had somehow, by some miracle, managed to capture the way that Sweden tended to look in the rare moments that he was smiling. Finland had tried to tell Sweden this once, he remembered that conversation very well, but - well, what he had actually said hadn't come out quite the way that he had meant it to.

He looked back at the watercolours. One of them was of that meadow they would go to, the fresh grasses, the wildflowers that he remembered. On the table beside it was the note. _I miss you._

It's strange, Finland thought as he slipped Sweden's portrait into his pocket and went over to the desk to put the paintings back into their portfolio. Strange to think of how much he missed small moments like that. How much the both of them missed it.

Strange to know that, without realizing it at all, you could miss someone's company so much.

The End


End file.
